She cannot pass a looking glass without
checking her foundation for a blemish.
To kiss her is to risk smearing Mona
Lisa’s lipstick. Such perfection only
mars her beauty with scars of vanity.
She lights a scented candle, which pervades
the room with a perfume so exactly
unlike avocado that it ruins
her mood. The receipt is still in the drawer,
so she takes it back to the one pound store.
She grew up with the parry, cut and thrust
of arguments at family dinners.
Her first impulse is to disagree with
everyone on principle. No man stands
a chance unless he counters her demands.
She wants a Humphrey Bogart look-alike,
in tight belted gabardine overcoat
and dented fedora. If life is worth
no more than a hill of beans, then to keep
on loving her is to court the Big Sleep.
She behaves as though romance is brittle
as an autumn leaf. Fiery for a while,
but by November it has fallen from
the tree and been raked up with the garbage.
‘Love is for the birds’: Her five word adage.
